For Kirk
i let you make your own films with your blondness spilling out like cum/ my cups completely full/ you and your life from underneath by moonlight sweeps and turns in whispers/ the fragile bed sullen in the tangle of your clothes upon the floor, sleep is an isolated body like glass stolen blind from the vault/ i have no idea what your films are supposed to mean/ but when they’re done, the tomb of air leaves us through an open window/